


in hindsight

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [18]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8646847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “You’re going to make me apologize first, aren’t you,” Robbie says.“Obviously,” Georgie says.Robbie sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’m sorry for dissing your best friend. He’s pretty boss.”“Yeah he is,” Georgie says.





	

Going from BU to summer vacation is like stepping into some weird unreality. Robbie’s doing the same shit as last summer, and it’s kind of like the last year didn’t happen at all. Okay, maybe there’s a little more working out, or a lot more, since he needs it if he wants to keep up with Georgie considering all the shit his summer involves, but other than that, it’s pretty normal, and being in constant contact with Georgie makes that just feel — stupid. Petty.

It’s weird being best friends with like, Future NHL Superstar Georgie Dineen. Puts everything in perspective or whatever. Robbie will call him after playing with his niece at the park, and Georgie will be getting on a plane to go to the Barons Rookie Camp. Robbie will be having family dinner with his parents and his nonna while Georgie’s in New York having dinner with his agent. Robbie’s smoking up with some friends from high school, and Georgie’s at a bar in Cleveland with a fucking Norris Trophy winner. Robbie’s getting a ride from his mom to the gym and Georgie’s training in upstate New York with dudes making minimum two million bucks a year.

Georgie’s not always out of town. Robbie goes to Providence three times that summer, and every time is super normal too, reminds Robbie of his own summer more than Georgie’s. Normal being like — yes the Dineen boys are all crazy fucking good athletes, but it’s still video games and playing basketball in the driveway and needing to use your elbows like weapons if you want the best cut of meat at the table. It seems like every single day Dickie has baseball practice or a game, William has soccer practice or a game, sometimes they both have games, overlapping, and Robbie’s pretty impressed with the efficient system the Dineens have going on, the support they show, even more impressed when he considers what it would have been like with Georgie in the mix too. 

Every time he goes down he ends up dragged by Georgie to at least a few games, Georgie the most embarrassing cheerleader beside him, but. He likes it. Georgie cares a lot about his brothers, how they’re doing, is proud as fuck of them. It’s sweet. 

Robbie tries to remember if Tony ever went to his games when he was younger. He went to one of the Terriers home games last year with the whole extended Lombardi family, which was kind of embarrassing, twenty plus people and a sparkly sign Gabbi made, but. It was nice.

Still, it wasn’t anything like this, Georgie on the sidelines louder than anyone. Dickie and William always look kind of embarrassed, but happy to be embarrassed. Robbie gets that. Georgie’s attention is like —

Robbie gets it.

*

Summer trips away fast. It was pretty uneventful, as summers go, though Robbie was busier than he’s ever been. He worked his ass off training, as much in the weight room as in rinks, and he finally breaks past the 175 pound mark for the first time in his life, hits half an inch past 5’10”, which is, like. Well, better late than never, growth spurt. Could’ve used you a little while ago.

It’s good to be back. He didn’t exactly go far, like some of the Terriers, no coming down from Canada or over from Minnesota or all the way from fucking Finland, but even if he was twenty minutes away, he was separated from it by more than distance.

“Holy fuck, Robbie, you look good,” Braden says, and Robbie preens a little.

“I do, don’t I?” Robbie says.

“I mean, you finally look sixteen instead of thirteen,” Braden says.

Robbie doesn’t know why he missed any of this fuckers at all.

Georgie has to miss the first few weeks of classes since he’s at training camp with the Barons. As far as excuses go, ‘I’m busy trying to break into the NHL’ is awesome as an excuse and, you know. Just plain awesome. 

There’s no way of knowing if Georgie’s going to be just missing a a week or two or dropping shit like it’s hot to play full time, but Robbie offers to go to his classes, knows some of the other Terriers do as well, because he can’t imagine how much it’d suck to get cut from the roster then find himself way fucking behind in school to boot. Robbie gets enlisted for Georgie’s Contemporary American Society course, takes damn good notes, if he says so himself. At the end of training camp, Georgie gets told to go back to Boston and develop a little more. Robbie hates himself for being kind of happy about it.

Georgie heads to Providence first to get all his shit together, lets him know when he’s on his way from there, and Robbie maybe lurks outside the dorms and jumps on his ass when he gets out of his mom’s car. It’s amazing he doesn’t throw Georgie’s back out, because he catches Georgie in the rare unsuspecting moment. Georgie’s reflexes save them, thank fuck, because if Robbie injured Georgie, he’s pretty sure the Terriers would tear him apart, never mind his own conscience. 

“Oof,” Georgie manages, once he gets his air back, dropping Robbie on his ass, but like. Gently. “You gain twenty pounds or something?”

“Twelve,” Robbie says proudly. “All muscle, baby.”

“Hi Robbie,” Mrs. Dineen says, getting out of the car. She’s laughing.

“Hi Mrs. Dineen,” Robbie says, scrambling to his feet.

“Sharon,” she says.

“Sharon, sorry,” Robbie says, because she tells him every time, and he manages for the length of the visit then switches right back to Mrs. Dineen again, because he was always told not to call parents by their first names, and it’s a hard habit to break.

“Looks like you’ve got another set of hands to carry your bags,” Sharon says to Georgie.

“Looks like,” Georgie agrees.

She departs with a hug and a kiss for Georgie, a hug for Robbie, and Robbie shoulders one of Georgie’s bags, waits with him at the front desk while Georgie sorts out the whole key business. It doesn’t take too long, and Robbie follows Georgie to his room, two floors up from Robbie this time, wrinkling his nose at the slightly stale smell when Georgie opens the door.

“Want some help unpacking?” Robbie asks.

“You don’t have to,” Georgie says. 

“I don’t mind,” Robbie says. Classes haven’t ramped up yet, and the season doesn’t start for another week, so he has glorious free time for probably the last time all year. Speaking of which, “I’ve got notes for that soc class in my room, don’t forget to remind me.”

“Thanks babe,” Georgie says.

“Sucks,” Robbie says, then adds, “About the Barons,” in case Georgie thinks he means the class, which seems okay. He’d said it through text when Georgie first told him, but it isn’t quite the same as in person.

“What can you do,” Georgie says, then, “It’s not all bad.”

“No?” Robbie asks. “Well, yeah. I guess it’s good you’re not stuck living in fucking Cleveland.”

“Cleveland’s fine,” Georgie says. “It’s mostly that this means I get to keep playing with you.”

“You’re a fucking sap,” Robbie says, tries and fails to hide the smile creeping across his face.

*

Georgie comes to the first game of the season clearly not interested in getting passed over by the Barons again, and you can fucking tell. He does everything with this grit-tooth determination that’s elevating Robbie’s play by association, dragging Robbie right up with him.

Are you delusional?” Georgie asks when Robbie says as much. “You think I’ve ever played this well with anyone else?”

“New motivation or whatever,” Robbie says.

“You’re fucking amazing,” Georgie says. “I wish you knew that.”

“I do know that,” Robbie says, bristling. Just because he’s apparently not worth the NHL’s attention doesn’t mean he’s not a fucking boss. He knows he’s good. 

“You don’t know it enough,” Georgie says. “If anything, you’re dragging me up.”

“Right,” Robbie says. “Sure, Georgie.”

“I mean it,” Georgie says. “You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you mean it,” Robbie says. “Which does not say good things about your grip on reality.”

Georgie smacks him upside the head.

“Ow, what,” Robbie says.

“Quit dissing my best friend,” Georgie says.

“But he’s got such shit taste in friends,” Robbie says. “He deserves it. Ow!”

He holds onto his ear, betrayed. “See,” Robbie says. “Shit taste.”

“Wanna come back to my room and watch Slapshot?” Georgie asks. “I’ve got a bottle of Jim Beam and Braden made this drinking game that gets you plastered by the end.”

“You’re going to make me apologize first, aren’t you,” Robbie says.

“Obviously,” Georgie says.

Robbie sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’m sorry for dissing your best friend. He’s pretty boss.”

“Yeah he is,” Georgie says.

*

Months later, Georgie reminds him of that conversation with smugness Robbie doesn’t even mind, during what Robbie would like to say is the best week of his life, bar none. Like none have come even close. 

The months in between those conversations — it’s not like they’re nothing, it’s just — Robbie’s sophomore year has had highs of ‘awesome I aced that shit’ and ‘we shut out BC, suck it’, and ‘at last, I end my ridiculous dry spell’, and ‘Georgie is the best friend a sick man can ever have, I’m gonna keep him’, and low points of ‘I did not study enough for that’ and ‘we just got shelled and at least two of those goals I feel directly responsible for’ and ‘I feel kind of gross about hooking up with that dude now that I’m not drunk and post-coital, he wasn’t even attractive’ and ‘that flu was a fucking killer, I think I am actually undead now’. You know. Pretty typical shit.

Then that week dawns, that week that is like, The Week of Robbie’s Motherfucking Life, and everything seems kind of trite in comparison. 

*

The start of the best fucking week ever comes from a kind of unexpected source after the first game of a back-to-back against Merrimack. It’s the best game Robbie’s played this season, maybe Georgie’s best too, and at the end of the night Robbie’s plus five with two assists, three blocked shots, and one happy motherfucking goalie, judging from the crushing hug he gets. 

As far as deliverers of good news go, it’s not exactly what you’d expect, just some unexceptional middle-aged dude hanging around outside the visitor’s room after the game. Robbie thinks he’s just someone’s dad until he says, “Roberto Lombardi?”

“Robbie,” Robbie says. “Do I know you?”

“No,” the guy says, then gives him a business card, which is such a fucking cliche. Robbie’s about to laugh, except College Scout — Washington Capitals is kind of…

Robbie doesn’t have words.

“Barrett Rutledge specifically asked me to come to this game,” the guy — Michael Guerin according to the business card — says. “He didn’t tell me what I was looking for, but I think he knew exactly what I was going to find.”

Robbie’s still speechless, but thankfully Guerin doesn’t seem to notice.

“You’re undrafted, aren’t you?” Guerin asks.

“Yes,” Robbie says, tries to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

“How old are you?” Guerin asks.

“Nineteen,” Robbie says.

“We’ll be keeping an eye on you in the draft,” Guerin says. “We’re…not particularly rich with draft picks this year, I don’t know if you were aware.”

“Um,” Robbie says. “No?” 

“If you aren’t drafted, we’d like you to come for a amateur tryout in August,” Guerin says. “Conditional on you maintaining a certain level of play, of course.”

“I’m not plus five every game,” Robbie says. “We don’t even usually _score_ five. You kind of caught me at an awesome time.”

Guerin laughs. “I know,” he says. “I looked at your stats. You maintain what you had last season, we’d love to have you.”

Robbie gapes at him. “Are you shitting me?” he asks, then, hating his stupid mouth, “Shit, sorry.”

Guerin laughs again, thank fuck. “I’m not shitting you,” he says. “Do you have an agent?”

“No,” Robbie says.

“Piece of advice,” Guerin says. “You might want to get one. Soon.”

“Sure,” Robbie says, kind of dazed. “Yeah, thanks man.”

Guerin shakes his hand again before he goes, leaves him with his business card. 

“You’re gaping like a fucking fish,” Braden says over his shoulder. “Did someone finally push you past the edge into full nutso?”

Robbie elbows him reflexively. “Capitals scout wanted to talk to me.”

“Fuck, seriously?” Braden asks. “That’s so awesome, Robbie.” Braden was a sixth round pick of the Penguins, practically guaran-fucking-teed a Cup ring if he cracks the roster, as unlikely as that might be, so Robbie should probably feel condescended to, but mostly he just feels — happy.

The news spreads fast, since they’re all a bunch of fucking gossips, and bussing back to Boston, there are a lot of back slaps, ‘we should celebrate’s. It was a freaking offer for a tryout, not a contract, and Robbie keeps telling them that, but their enthusiasm is pretty contagious. Georgie sits beside him on the bus, grinning as wide as Robbie is, gave him a hug and a painful slap on the back, but is content to let everyone else say their piece, apparently.

North Andover’s only a half an hour away, close enough that they could go out, celebrate the win, the chance Robbie suddenly has. They have another game against Merrimack tomorrow night, though, so when they do hit the city they scatter, all offers of celebrating forgotten. Robbie would be offended, except he absolutely would have shut that shit down if someone insisted. Hurting your hockey by celebrating your hockey is one big pile of dumbass.

Georgie finally cracks the silence when they get to the dorms, and Robbie wonders if he just wanted to be able to say it without everyone around. “Win or lose, we’re celebrating this tomorrow,” Georgie says, pointing at him.

“What the shit is this talk about losing?” Robbie asks. “We’re going to roll right on over them and then you’re going to buy me so many celebratory shots.”

“Deal,” Georgie says. “Remember who told you you were amazing first when you’re a big shot.” 

“It’s sweet that you think you were the first,” Robbie says, though, like. He kind of is. Robbie’s gotten good, great, excellent, but Robbie’s pretty sure amazing was previously reserved for comments from his mamma.

Georgie laughs. “Touche,” he says. “NHL, holy fuck, babe.”

“Being invited to training camp if I don’t fuck it up isn’t NHL,” Robbie says. “It’s like. I mean, he called it a tryout.”

“You’re going to nail it,” Georgie says.

“And whatever, you’re like, actual NHL,” Robbie says. “I’m whatever.”

Georgie literally cups his cheeks. Robbie thought that was just a thing you saw in movies and stuff, and it stops him in his tracks.

“You’re fucking amazing,” Georgie says. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Robbie says, when it becomes clear Georgie won’t let go until Robbie gives him an answer.

Georgie kisses him on the forehead. He’s done it before to most of the team, smacking kisses onto helmets, which is sort of the same, but. Not. Robbie’s eyes flutter shut without his permission, open again after Georgie pulls back.

“Tomorrow,” Georgie says, and it sounds like a promise.


End file.
